


Difficile longum est subito deponere amorem

by stereokem



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is difficult to suddenly give up a long love. Clue: Watson, in the kitchen, with a newspaper. Angsty</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kitchen

“The more compelling the path, the more lonely it is” – Hugh Macleod

 

            “You are leaving.”

            He hadn’t quite meant for those words to slip from his mouth. Certainly, they had been clanging around in his cranium for quite some time; the last few minutes especially, sitting in not-quite-companionable silence at the small, circular table in their shared kitchen (shared, obviously, for the unwashed dishes and half-eaten food on one side and the impeccable, somewhat unreasonable tidiness of the other). There was no special occurrence or cause for uneasiness: just breakfast, Watson at his coffee (stiff, black, no crème, no sugar) and Holmes at his porridge (plain, lumpy, messily made) and biscuits (drowning in syrup). Nothing odd, nothing unusual. Shuffle of the morning paper in Watson’s hand, the scrape of silverware against ceramic as Holmes tried to push his breakfast around into more aesthetically pleasing lumps.

            Perhaps there was cause for concern there, though. It might have been a trigger, albeit a subtle one. That Watson was fully engrossed in the paper, not even giving a half-disdainful glance at Holmes’ less-than-healthy morning meal, not that customary “I suppose I don’t have to tell you what that’s doing to your teeth” look in regards to the maple-smothered biscuits. Not even a crack or comment about the state of his (poor, abused, wiry) body, which was in desperate need of a shower and clean clothing (or at least clothing absent of bloodstains). No, he was much too absorbed in the paper, and not even an _interesting_ paper (no crimes, no suspicious activity, Holmes’ had already checked). Though Watson’s face was calm, collected, and mildly enthused, he could have hardly been that intrigued by the press of that particular morning. There probably would have been more to read in the dregs of Holmes’ tea, left out since yesterday noontime when he’d taken it; if Holmes’ knew Watson, the man was probably skimming over the articles with only mild comprehension, losing his thoughts more in his coffee than in the words on the cheaply printed pages.

            Which brought Holmes around to the second issue at hand: the coffee. Though he himself had often sufficed on little more than a dab of tea and a few noms of toast for breakfast, Watson was a doctor, and as such very well informed on the importance of the morning meal (which he took great pains to impress upon Holmes most every other day when the slighter man neglected to fashion any kind of extravagant meal). Watson was to be seen with an agreeable and nutritious pair or trio of foodstuffs: eggs, omelets, toast with jam, fruit (when it was available), porridge, oats, muffins, quiche, scones--- accompanied generally by coffee, tea, or sometimes a glass of milk.

            And today? Just coffee. Not really breakfast, just the precursor. Which obviously meant that he was getting breakfast elsewhere. The choice of simply indulging in coffee suggested that a) there would be no coffee wherever he ended up dining, or b) that the coffee would be far more expensive than their cheap (but equitable) brand. If the latter, then he would be dining at a restaurant among sophisticated company; if the former, he would be dining at someone’s home, most likely a female’s (who would be quite aware of the staining effects of coffee upon the teeth). As Watson was not the sleuth, but the accomplice, it would hardly make sense for him to be meeting with a client to discuss a case (as it would likewise make little sense for Watson to meet one of his own patients outside his office/quarters). As such, it was apparent that Watson would be dining with Mary.

            Something in Holmes’ gut clenched at that thought. _Ah, Mary_. Pretty-but-plain, smart-but-simple, intelligent-but-dull Mary Morstan. Not interesting as a specimen, but in her ability to captivate the attention and time of the good doctor to no end. Once a crack, now a hole in the floor. Mary the moon, constantly pulling Watson any way she wished. Consequentially, away from Holmes and the flat at 221 B Baker Street. Mary the Gorgon. The charmless enchantress. The one Watson was leaving for.

            And Holmes had stared across the white-and-blue checkered tablecloth at Watson, breakfast all but cold and forgotten save for the spoon he pushed through his porridge, unable to think any other lucid thought. _You are leaving. Going. Departing. Vanishing. Leaving nothing but ephemeral warmth in your seat._

            And no, he really hadn’t intended to say any of those words out loud; but he let them roll out anyway, the last syllable hanging like extra flesh off the edge of his lower lip. _-ing_ , sticking like tar to his mouth.

            Watson, who had been using both his coffee and paper to shield his conscience from Holmes’ despondent stare, looked up, surprise flitting across his face, eyebrows raising.

            “Pardon?”

            Holmes swallowed. “You are leaving.”

            Setting down his coffee (but the not the paper, dispensing of the sword but not the shield) and nodded, expression somewhat mystified. “Yes . . . but not for another fifteen minutes.”

            “It is nearly nine. Are ladies customary to receiving breakfast so late?”

            Watson knew better than to be surprised at Holmes’ deduction. He also heard the edge in the detective’s words, singing like the murmur of a teakettle prior to eruption. Watson shrugged carefully. “I am not sure. I do not question the ways of women; I simply do as I’m prodded.”

            Ah. Domestic obedience.“Best course of action, in all probability.” The level, guileless response, punctuated by more scraping of metal against white ceramic.

            Watson, unable to keep himself fully engaged in either his coffee or the paper any long, finally folded the news and set it down next to his drink. He sat back in the rickety wooden chair, suspender straps straining slightly against the starch white fabric of his shirt as he crossed his arms over his chest. The mouth beneath the neat mustache settled into an unreadable expression. Holmes’ saw all of this without looking up, continuing to torture and mutilate his porridge.

            Watson watched him, the scroop of the spoon and the bowl grating to his ears. His brow dipped as he surveyed his friend across the kitchen, mouth forming into a frown.

            “You’d rather I not go.”

            Holmes barely raised an eyebrow, still not looking up. Giving up on the depressing lump that was his porridge, he reached for his fork and took another stab at his biscuits. Unenthusiastically, he brought a small bit to his mouth. “Nonsense,” he murmured around the sugary mush.

            It was Watson’s turn to raise a brow. “Is it?”

            Finally, Holmes looked up at Watson, allowing himself a small, but eager sweep across the doctor’s impeccable countenance (the trousers showing creases from their pristine folding, the simple but professional white collared shirt, fitting so well over the slightly muscular torso, top button casually undone to expose a fraction of collarbone, tie hanging loosely around his neck) before settling determinedly on his face (fresh and expertly groomed, not a whisker out of place). His eyes felt heavy, taking his friend in.

            “Of course. It is not any business of mine what kind of female company you fill your time with. I am hardly going to stop you from doing as you please.”

            Watson let the words sit for a few seconds. “But you do not like Mary.”

            It was one of the first times in his life that Holmes came to appreciate the potential value of diplomacy. “I have only met her a handful of times, Watson. Even I can hardly pass judgment upon her, given our scant acquaintance.”

            Watson almost snorted at this, a flicker of annoyance brewing in his empty gut. “It has hardly stopped you before, Holmes--- ”

            “Women are as much a mystery to me as to you, dear Watson. But since I am at least aware of how very cunning they are, it would not surprise me if Ms. Morstan were hiding some vastly redeemable qualities under her veneer of simpering womanish charm--- which in itself could be seen as something of a redeemable quality, since you yourself are so smitten by it---”

            “Mary is not ‘simpering’---” Watson began irritably.

            “All women are simpering, dear Watson, especially in regards to the men they amuse themselves with.”

            Watson sat up straight, uncrossing his arms. “Amuse--- you think Mary is toying with me, is that it?”

            Holmes dropped his fork with a clank. “Of course. That is what courtship is by its very nature, no? Toying. Playing. Coyly pressing boundaries, subtly groping for control--- ”

            “Your reasoning and deductions are biased, Holmes. Not _all_ women are like Irenata---”

            “No,” Holmes agreed. “Just most of them. Ms. Morstan does not appear to me to be any different--- ”

            “--- and you can use her _first_ name, you know--- you have after all, ‘met her a handful of times’--- ”

            “--- but as I said, the company you keep in your leisure is not any business of mine, as long as it does not interfere with our work,” Holmes finished. “You may have your dalliances, dear Watson. Every man is allowed his weaknesses and small pleasures.”

            Across the table, Watson was purpling (a rather unattractive shade, actually; Holmes made a mental note to tell the doctor later that puce was not his best color). A vein under his chin, sidling along his neck, was beginning to strain against the skin, and his jaw had hardened like granite. His grey eyes were narrowed in anger.

            “Mary is more than just a ‘ _dalliance’_. And she certainly isn’t a ‘small pleasure’, as you so eloquently put it.”

            “The amount of pleasure she gives you is also none of my business, although I would remind you that when most men refer to females as their ‘kept’ woman, they do not generally restrict their activities to just that one: a little variation might do you---”

            _“HOLMES!”_

Surprising himself, Sherlock winced. He was positive he’d heard clay breaking at the sound and force of Watson’s voice. The flat itself seemed to cower, growing dead silent.

An awkward, ringing paused bloomed like blood from an open lesion in front of them. It reverberated in the small kitchen, making Watson’s head throb.

            Then, in a voice that somehow managed to be both matter-of-fact and quietly demure, Holmes replied, eyes lowered:---

            “I would advise you no to shout, Watson. We get so many complaints about unwarranted noise already. It would hardly do to provoke any more.”

            Holmes knew as soon as the words left him that this was, in every way, the incorrect thing to say. It was callous and inappropriate, unfeeling, mocking, and cold--- all the things John regularly criticized him for.

            Thus, the severity and barely-concealed anger with which Watson conducted his next movements came as absolutely no surprise to him. He watched as the other man, after an extended silence, stood stiffly from his chair, pushed it back into the table with utmost control (so careful not to exert an iota of force more than necessary), and picked up his coat where it had been draped on the back of the chair. Carefully keeping his eyes away, Watson shrugged into his coat and reached for his cane, leaning patiently against the table.

            “I am leaving to have breakfast with Mary,” he announced, as though the subject had not been broached (as if the heated discourse of the last few minutes had not transpired). He continued to avert his eyes from Holmes, talking instead to the tablecloth (or perhaps his abandoned newspaper, or coffee cup, or vacant chair; Holmes wasn’t sure which). “Afterwards, I am going to run some errands and visit a few bedridden patients. Do you need anything while I am out?”

            Holmes’ throat felt hollow. “No, no. I am well enough equipped as I am.”

            Watson scoffed. “I’m certain.”

            More silence.

            Reaching across the table, Holmes plucked up the paper that Watson had set down. He slid a finger between the pages, turning to no particular section and laying it carefully open, fully aware of Watson watching him in fuming silence. He glanced up at the doctor briefly.

            “Don’t dally; your bonny lass has never had much patience for your undue tardiness.”

            Watson opened his mouth as if to utter a withering reply. . .

            But he said nothing. Instead, he closed it wordlessly. Sherlock felt what could only be relief slide through him like a swig of bourbon, warm, sweet-painful. More words would have meant for a longer fight, would have meant that John would linger. . . .

            For once--- perhaps for the first time in his life--- Sherlock did not have the energy or willpower to argue.

            He kept his eyes on the paper and listened to the sounds of Watson ambling out, cane in hand, coats rustling. Listened to the slam of the front door and the thunder of Watson’s limping steps down the stairs.

            Seconds ticked by.

            The flat screamed with its own stillness.

            Forgetting entirely about the paper, Holmes leaned back in his chair, pulling both his pipe and tobacco out of his trouser pocket. He packed in the tobacco and, striking a match on the bottom of his shoe, lit the pipe, taking a long drag to kindle the embers. He exhaled.

            “Is it so wrong of me?” he asked softly.

_Is it so inhuman and illogical that I fear you leaving?_

_Is it so cold and selfish to want to keep you?_

            The white-tiled walls of the kitchen glare at him from all directions, pale and angry and silent.

            Holmes glared back at them. Took another slow drag.

            Apparently, yes.


	2. Weeks

Weeks.

It had been weeks: two, three, who could say, he was losing count. The general ebb and flow of time outside the realm of unsolved casework and scientific experimentation was often lost on him. He would nestle in an armchair for a leisurely smoke at dawn; and suddenly, it would be evening, the apartment still and noiseless, the daylight swept away under the heavy rug of night without him ever having gotten up out of the chair. In a gust of warm wind in the anacrusis of summer he would blink, and it would be winter, a sudden chill setting its teeth on his bones. Conceptual time eluded him in the same manner sound escaped the ears of a deaf man, only apparent through faint vibrations and the knowledge that somehow it was extant, that somewhere it was relevant to someone's life.

Having said as much, in all honesty, he actually was unable to conclude for certain that it had been weeks since The Argument in the Kitchen. It might have been months. It might have been seconds. His speculation that it had been weeks was only an assumption, based on one main variable, one disquieting factor:

Emptiness.

The sheer, raging emptiness of apartment 21 B.

To the casual visitor (not that there were many of those) this state of agonizing vacuousness would not be overwhelmingly apparent. It wasn't as though the flat was lacking in physical matter: as it was, the normal messy conglomeration of miscellaneous items, accouterments, contraptions, and whathaveyoushad been replaced by an entirely new level of frightening disarray. In some rooms, there was barely floor space to stand, much less clear pathways by which to navigate without stepping on anything. But all this was the mess of one man alone; the emptiness prevailed in regards to another absentee party. So, perhaps it was not, effectually, emptiness.

_Watsonlessness_ , he decided. He said it aloud to the audience of the flat, trying out his morbid neologism.

The word breathed like a disease.

And yes, it must have by now been weeks, he decided, sucking on his unlit pipe, scouring the contents of the dark room. It must have been weeks because, after The Argument in the Kitchen, Watson's personal affects had begun disappearing. It had begun with his professional appurtenances— medical books, medicine chest, pharmaceutical supplies, doctor's bag, crates of patient files— but the removal of those items had come as no surprise. John was setting up new offices elsewhere, and had told Holmes as much. Granted, though the disappearance of these had led to several tense conversations (well, more tense than usual; The Argument in the Kitchen had put a permanent strain on exchanges of any kind between them), they were not a true cause for fuss or alarm. It was expected. He was prepared.

He had not been prepared for hte sudden absence of Watson's grandfather clock in the main entry way. The ancient monstrosity had stood its solemn four feet from the door for as long as they had lived on Baker Street, a constant, grand (but in Holmes' opinion, essentially unremarkable) piece of furniture that had been witness to many a conversation and mad dash out the door over the years. Holmes had never had any real use for the thing, and it had been one of the few items to make the (rather short) list of "Belonging Solely To Dr. John Hamish Watson"; regardless, when he came back late from several bouts at the stockyards* one night and noticed that it was gone, the realization was instantaneous, swift, and sickening. And when Holmes had (tried to) casually mention it over breakfast, Watson had looked at him (with unnecessary acerbity) over the top of his morning paper and said simply, dismissively, "It's at Mary's."

The simply sentence hit him like a sledgehammer; but he refused to let it weave into his next innocently posed question: "How will you tell the time?"

"I have a pocket watch," Watson replied stiffly.

"The one I gave you for your birthday." He was not sure what had made him say that; it simply slipped from him. Across the table, Watson diverted his full attention to Holmes, looking at him strangely.

". . . Yes."

And Holmes, who repeatedly displayed his lack of knowledge and or regard for social norms, did not miss or fail to obey that tacit order to drop the matter. He simply grunted with expertly feigned indifference and went back to his biscuits.

Week one. That had been week one.

Several days later, they had been sitting once again in the kitchen for breakfast; and Holmes had been happy then, dandy and giddy because there they were for the first time in five days, sitting at _their_ table in _their_ cramped, dingy little kitchen with the steaming, scrumptious-looking promise of a real breakfast set before them, and no newspaper, no Mary to be spoken of or met. Just John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, sitting down to breakfast and what he could at least pretend was companionable silence.

He'd been so inherently giddy, so uncommonly excited that he was halfway through his third bite of sausage before it finally dawned on him that something was amiss.

He looked up from his unusually sizable breakfast just long enough to see Watson carefully set down his fork and reach for his cup of earl grey at the head of his plate—

Except that it was not Watson's cup. It was not his favorite navy blue mug with the gold trim, nor was it one of his alternative black ones (of which there were four). It was one of Mrs. Hudson's: plain, white, sterile-looking.

Again, that same sickening realization, accompanied this time by disbelieving dread: like a wave of nausea and bile, giving the succulent, half-masticated sausage in his mouth the flavor of acetic acid. And despite the fact that he ate not one more bite that morning or the rest of the day, despite that he tried to displace the taste with approximately 3 gallons of water, the taste lingered all day. Even in the evening, when his mouth was so numb with whiskey that his lolling tongue felt repulsive and foreign to him, the taste prevailed.

It was only when he gathered the liquor-lathered courage to actually scour the kitchen cupboards and drawers only to find them, as he'd dreaded, _empty_ that he finally vomited.

And that had been week two.

After that, he'd lost all real track of the passing of days. His only indication of time elapsing was the dwindling amount of Watson in the apartment.

Until, one night, all of Watons's clothes finally vanished.

Until that night that John Watson did not come home.

He had waited, sat all night nearly buried in the cushions of his moth-eaten armchair, sucking aimlessly at this pipe much as he was doing now. For all he knew, he could have never gotten up out of his seat since then; he'd dozed a fair few times, enough to while away the majority of a day. The blinds were drawn tightly enough over the windows so as not to let a single dribble of sunlight touch the confines of his den. He could have been sitting here for months; he was certainly stiff enough.

But, by his judgement, it had only been weeks.


End file.
